


Remember Me By Our Good Days

by skoosiepants



Category: Political RPF - US 21st c.
Genre: Alternate Universe - Rock Band, Band Fic, Gen, Indie Music, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-08
Updated: 2016-08-08
Packaged: 2018-08-07 11:25:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7713193
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skoosiepants/pseuds/skoosiepants
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I kind of got Tim arrested.”</p><p>-Or</p><p>That time I wrote Sanders, Kaine, Clinton and Obama into an indie band on tour.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Remember Me By Our Good Days

**Author's Note:**

> Political indie band AU, implied M/M because I can’t help myself, mainly gen, makes no political statement beyond the fact that they all looked super fresh when they were young’uns. Don't judge me. Originally posted on tumblr, although no one actually asked for it. Title is from The Elected. Based on this [twitter pic](https://twitter.com/DanielRCarrillo/status/758499677029277696/photo/1).
> 
> My word doc for this is named “ohno”
> 
> Sorry.

Sandy’s got a black eye again, angry red from his temple to the corner of his nose; it’s going to be swollen purple before they even make it back to the van. He’s still sweaty from the crowd, curls wild and damp on his forehead—he’s got a belligerent twist to his mouth, and half a ukulele tucked under his arm. Hillary can only imagine where the other half went.

She slumps into Barack’s side with a groan, and Barack absently tips his hat down over his eyes and pats the top of her head.

She’s _tired_.

She doesn’t need this shit, especially on the tail end of seven weeks stuck in a trashy van with these three yahoos: Mr. Cool and Suave, with his all-American smile, Heart Throb “B-rock” Obama, and then there’s their mess of a banjo/ tambourine/et al player, who throws himself headlong into every kind of fight imaginable, just to see how many times he can conceivably break his nose before it just gives up and falls off his face.

He opens his mouth and she points her finger at him, judging.

She says, “No.”

Just slightest hint of sheepishness edges into his expression. He says, “I kind of got Tim arrested.”

“Of course you did.” Of _course_. Tim can’t help but wade righteously into whatever trouble Sandy’s gotten himself into, she really wishes they could just make out with tongues and get it over with, so they can stop using all their extra cash on bail. It’s not like this summer tour was ever going to be _glamorous_ , but she’d appreciate a couple nights of running water.

Barack snorts, muffles his laughter into his ridiculous straw hat, and Hillary digs a sharp elbow into his side.

“I really wish Michelle were here,” Hillary says to the sticky bar top. Michelle and some soap and maybe an extra pair of jeans—they haven’t had enough coins for the laundromat in nearly a month.

“I vote we leave him,” Barack says, only he’s already standing up and digging into his pockets, splaying its contents on top of the bar: a beer opener, two toothpicks, an unwrapped mint and a crumpled five.

Hillary says, “That’s going to get us a couple Mr. Good Bars from the vending machine.”

Barack grins at her. “Busking it is.”

“You like this,” Hillary says accusingly. Barack would love it if they toured like this for the rest of their lives, living off McDonalds and Slurpees, making their way to Arizona to sleep out under the stars. He has two shirts and some cargo shorts, and he lost his sneakers a mere week into the tour. He smiles like the sun comes up every morning just to tell him hello.

Swinging an arm around Sanders, Barack says, “I just wanna play music, Hills, is that so bad?”

“I think I broke my hand,” Sandy says, frowning down at his flexing fingers.

“And now your nose is bleeding,” Hillary says, shoving a bunch of used bar napkins at him. She’s going home. She doesn’t need this aggravation in her life; she doesn’t need sweet harmonies and bongo drums to go to Yale in the fall. “I hate all of you.”

She unlocks her phone to look up directions to the local police precinct.

Barack lazily hums _Radioactive_ , and Sandy tries to get all his limbs off him. Hillary bets he wishes Michelle were here, too.

Google maps says they’re a decent fifteen minutes away from the most-likely Kaine destination. She curls her fingers around her phone and leads the way back out to their van, a rundown rust-bucket Barack bummed off his best friend, Joe, that has, miraculously, not broken down yet.

“You,” she says to Sandy, “hump seat, over the wheel.” It’s the seat of shame, and he will sit in it until they get Timmy back. “You,” she says to Barack as he opens the passenger door, “don’t fall asleep on me.” He’s like an affectionate octopus after shows, Hillary will never admit to occasionally enjoying it.

She briskly rounds the front of the van, climbs up into the driver’s seat and revs the engine.

The asphalt ahead of them is a slick black from an earlier rain. The street lamps reflect gold in the shallow puddles; the sky is a murky, starless dark gray. The back door of the bar is propped open, and laughter and music spill over them when she rolls down her window. The rest of the night is quiet.

Air hot and humid, a mix of garbage and oil oozes out from the alley right next to them.

Barack lets out a loud snore, but his head is tipped onto his own window, slumped with his limbs sprawled and his hat riding his stomach.

Adjusting the rear view mirror, her eyes catch Sanders’. He’s smiling a little, even though his one eye’s nearly swelled shut and there’s still blood at the corner of his mouth. She flashes a quick grin back.

“Don’t worry,” she says. She’s got a secret stash of money in her left boot. Like her parents would ever let her leave the state with a bunch of indie rock nobodies without some backup. And she can complain all she wants, but she’d never leave her boys all out in the wilds alone, at the mercy of their own idiocy.

He folds his arms over his chest, shifts uncomfortably and shrugs, shoulders loosening. He says, “I won’t. You got this.”

“Damn right,” she says, and steps on the gas.

**Author's Note:**

> sometimes I write stuff on [tumblr](http://pantstomatch.tumblr.com)


End file.
